


Heliocentric

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Apologies, Billiards, Characters giving in to feelings, Companionship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domesticity, F/M, Flowers, Fluff, Forgiveness, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Incest, It's fairly open-ended, Lazy Morning, Love Confession, Making Dinner, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt adores you, Matt blames himself for everything, Matt has a panic attack, Matt's just a little nervous, Minor Violence, Protective!Matt, Sappy, Soulmates, Stars and Planets serve as metaphors for your relationship, With a dash of light angst, You are literally Matt's entire world, You don't know Matt is Daredevil, You give Matt Murdock a hug, You're chill about it, and low-key pessimistic, cuteness, hand holding, might continue, mostly just Feelings, obviously, slight self-esteem issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-05 21:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12802389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Everything changes, everything stays the same. That much is true. Anything could happen to him, to the world, you could do anything, become anything, and he'd still love you. Years go by, and he changes, so do you, but he still loves you. He still remembers the days that he ran himself ragged putting stars in the sky just so he could watch your eyes sparkle. Now, now he can't remember if he actually put them there, or if they were always there to begin with. It doesn't matter. Not really.





	1. Chapter 1

Life in the Murdock household had never been easy, nor had it ever been simple to boot. But somehow, it was perfect. At least, to you. It may have been that you were too young to really remember how things were, how everything was difficult.

To you, all that mattered, all that filtered through was that your dad loved you. That was undeniable. You remember his calloused, bruised hands, and how gentle he always was when he picked you up, or when you would crawl into his lap and lean against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You remember his face always dotted with multi-colored bruises, and crisscrossed with medical tape and tiny band-aids. And he’d smile at you with a soft glow in his eyes, regardless of the injuries, more like he did it _because_ of the injuries.

Looking back, you can see that he fought for one thing. And that one thing was you and Matt. He stepped into that ring so that he could provide for you both. He wasn’t a smart man, he wasn’t fueled by ingenuity. He could just take a beating. Had the toughest skin, except when it came to you two; he was just a big ‘ol softie then.

So, he took a beating for you both, and brought home the dough. It was a hard life, a lot of scraping the bottom of the barrel, and a lot of not getting what you wanted. But you loved him so much it overshadowed the poverty and adversity none of you could climb out of.

But it didn’t matter. You had your dad that put the stars in the sky and you had your brother who helped keep them there. He always did that.

Kept things for you. Made them last any way he could. The grandeur of Jack Murdock, he spun that and twisted it, and wrung it out, dried it in the sun and kept it going. He loved to read to you, back then. Before it happened.

He’d started out reading simple things to you, something with pictures and small words and big print. But you’d never really get into the story, it lacked in every way and you’d half-pay attention. Matt noticed, because Matt noticed everything. Especially about you.

So, he’d read you different things, books without pictures so you’d have to close your eyes and listen to his voice, let the words from the page dance behind your dark eyelids, and you’d have his voice in one ear and his heartbeat in your other. And you’d fall asleep, dreaming of bigger, fancier things, and deeper struggles.

Matt never wanted to let you down. He was your big brother, the second line of defense, right behind his dad, who was right in front of the world and everything evil in it. Matt was just a kid, but he was ready and willing and happy to look out for you. He was proud, honored to.

Your eyes shone with the stars your dad put in the night sky, and he spent his days and nights revolving around you, keeping them there that you might always having something to look up to. That you’d always find something beautiful within the dark.

He was ready to protect you, guard you. He was honored to.

And then he went blind. And he could no longer see the stars in your eyes, all he saw was the dark. But dammit- he still spun around you, sporadic, and off-balance, and so damn scared- but he spun and spun, and spun, doing what he could to light up your world.

It didn’t matter that his whole world had gone dark. It had never been about him. He wasn’t worried about the stars in his sky, suns could’ve exploded and he’d never notice. Because his world was about you, and anything that happened in the background, in his peripherals, didn’t mean squat.

He couldn’t read to you, not like he had. But you didn’t seem to mind. You’d sit next to him while he learned braille and you’d not say a peep. You’d just sit and watch him run his fingers over the bumps and smile when he’d stumble, a deep frown in his eyebrows.

Sometimes, you’d run your fingers over the bumps too, blinking curiously, and Matt would put his hands in his lap and listen to you breathe. He’s almost sure to this day that you learned braille before he did, because you’d ask him to read you the ‘bumps’ and he would. And he’d stop after a second, feeling something was off with the sentence, and you’d take his hand and you’d run his fingers over the braille, once or twice, slowly. And then he’d fix his mistake and you’d lift his hands to your face so he could feel your smile.

The sensory overloads didn’t happen a lot, but when they did, only you cut through the delirium and chaos. You were like light that he could hear. You were what he fashioned his life around, any direction he took was only because he had you in mind when he took it.

Sometimes, when he’s laying in bed and can’t close everything out, when his senses won’t shut down and he’s on the verge of a panic attack, he thinks of you. He thinks of your heartbeat, and your presence beside him that was a constant, and he imagines your breathing, and emerges through the fog, barely resisting the urge to grope for you in his darkness.

He hasn’t spoken to you in a long time.

Which is why he can’t find anything to say at the moment.

He knows you’re there, he can hear your heartbeat- _your heartbeat_. And he’s excited, but guilty, and he’s scared, but so relieved, and he’s…he’s just a mess. Because he doesn’t know how he’s done this without you.

He’s been standing here for two minutes. He knows it’s been that long because he’s counted and he’s mentally berating himself for not saying anything. Your heartbeat is steady, and it’s strong. _It’s so strong,_ he thinks, he admires.

But you’ve always been strong.

“Matty.” You say, a crease in your forehead because he’s been stiff for a long time and silent. He hasn’t moved, not an inch from where he is at the end of his kitchen counter, gripping it hard like a vice.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He frowns limply with trembling lips and swipes a nervous tongue over them. Your voice. It’s so different now. You sound certain, and unbendable, and you sound like you don’t need him anymore.

You sound like there aren’t stars in your sky.

You’re worried. He can tell.

“I’m sorry.” Is what he croaks out. Not _It’s good to see you,_ or _I’ve missed you like Hell,_ or _How was spring break?_ No _Please plop your ass down on my couch and tell me everything._

No. He’s just sorry.

You smile at him, your expression soft, your heart more-so. “I know.” You tell him, and you do know. You know Matt only does what’s best for you, has since you were born. Sure, this time around it wasn’t anything you wanted, and it hurt, it hurt so bad.

But…

Seeing him there, in his suit and tie, his slightly rumpled shirt and well-loved dress slacks, those red-tinted glasses reflecting the light of the billboard outside-

You decide the pain was worth it.

You shrug out of your jacket, and toss it on the back of a chair. “But you were right. You bastard.”

Matt’s lips twitch with a smile, miserably short of it, but the intent is there. “I wish I hadn’t been.” He lets go of the counter, and his fingers tingle with pin-prinks and needles, but he doesn’t so much as wince. Not when you’re here.

Everything thing else fades to background noise, everything that isn’t you disappears because he’s too busy spinning around you.

“No,” You smile wanly and walk towards him, your breath and chest feeling lighter the closer you get. “You just wish you could’ve gone with me.”

He sucks in a breath. Because nothing could be truer. Wherever you go, that’s where he wants to be, but- “You don’t need me. Not anymore, not really.” He’s not whining, or playing the martyr, or looking for sympathy. He’s only stating what he knows to be true.

You’re in front of him now, he can sense your proximity, smell your shampoo and body wash, the perfume on your wrists. He can feel your body heat, and he can barely hear the words coming out of his mouth because your heart is so close.

“You needed to live your own life. Without me-“

“It sucked out loud.” You interrupt him, softly, and tilt your head up to peer into those wine-colored glasses.

He sighs through his nose, and you know he only does that when he’s trying not to laugh. God, he’s missed you. Only you could make him want to laugh when he’s on the edge of shedding tears.

“Matt,” You place a hand on his arm, and he shudders like he’s cold, so you tighten your grip and reinforce your heart. “I could’ve gone anywhere, I _can_ go anywhere…” He swallows hard in response, and you take half a step, your nose inches from his chin, and you murmur,

“But I don’t want to. Not if you’re right here.”

The view is the same, but he closes his eyes at your words because they’re music and his eyes are useless for listening. He closes his eyes because the silence between your words snakes into the space where your bodies almost touch, and his eyes are useless for that. He closes his eyes, because behind his darkened lids he can pretend it’s all a dream, a lie.

“I let you down.” The words tumble out of him like sin-stained confession, and to him it is. A sin that he’s failed you. He can put anything under the rug like it’s troublesome dust, save this: He failed you.

“No.” You say, your voice breaking ever so slightly in teary disbelief, and you rest both your hands on his stubbly cheeks. “You never did, not once.” He sighs, shaken, and you lean forward to rest your temple against his jaw as you say,

“How can you not get it? After all these years?”

Matt’s hands find their way to your lower back, his calloused, but gentle hands that tremble minutely at your warmth and human softness. “Get what?” he asks, near the end of his rope.

“I wasn’t looking for stars, Matt. I was only ever looking at you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's second nature, undeniable. It's a force of nature: like gravity. The closer he gets the stronger it becomes. He knows there's a line in there somewhere, but it's getting harder to remember. If he wasn't already, he's sure that your brilliance would blind him. He knows. He knows, deep within him, where the Devil is, he knows what he feels for you isn't right. But this close, being with you is as close as he's come to truly believing God is real. He's prepared to burn.

He hasn’t moved. Not once all morning. He doesn’t plan on it anytime soon, either.

He hums, nosing at your neck, half-listening to read you aloud. He’s more occupied with the warmth you radiate, the way you settle into him, mold to his shape, and the way you subconsciously rub the wrist of the hand he has resting on your thigh.

He snakes an arm around the front of your stomach, pulling you closer and he buries his face a little deeper into the crook of your neck. It’s dangerous: getting this close. He could burn up, but he’s too weak to resist the gravitational pull you have on him.

Matt’s prepared to burn.

“Have you listened to anything I’ve said?” You ask him, a smile in your voice, and he sighs against your neck, content. You have a finger on the page, saving your spot, but you’re not looking at the words. You’ve made the mistake of taking your attention off the book, and putting it on Matt.

He’s wrapped up in you like a warm blanket, holding you in the right places, feeling comfy, feeling like an extension of yourself. He feels like safety and home, and you revel in it. After all, you haven’t known what real home felt like. Not since before your dad died.

Wherever you were, even if you were with Matt you never quite felt safe, you never felt that you could be with Matt the way you are now. There was always so much noise, and so many people, there was so much worry back in those days at the orphanage.

You were always worried that you two would get separated. Matt may have been the blind one, but you needed him the most. To you, there wasn’t any point in living if you weren’t with Matt. Every second of every day you spent with him, either in his room, or in the library where it was quietest.

He had his cane, but you always had his arm. Maybe he didn’t need your help back then but he always took it. But he’d take your hand, smaller than his own, and he’d hold it so tight.

Like now.

Your hand is still smaller, but it fits in his perfectly.

Matt hums again. “Yeah, I’ve been listening.” His thumb runs over your knuckles, back and forth, and he lifts his head to lay his temple against yours. “I’m always listening.”

“Hmm,” you respond, not minding the scratch of his stubbled cheek on your own. You close the book, without marking your page and pull away from his embrace just long enough to put it on the floor. When you sit up again, Matt resituates the both of you, moving you so easy you have to wonder what he’s been doing in his free time.

Has he always been this strong, you think.

Matt leans back into the corner of his couch, his body angled with corner itself, and he gets you how he wants you: half in his lap, half on the couch so he can keep an arm around you. So he can trace the features of your face with his other hand, softly, reverently.

He used to do this all the time when you were kids growing up. He was worried that he’d forget what you like. And now that it’s been so long since he’s seen you…He’s trying to make up for lost time.

Your brow. He starts there, mapping the distance with feathery fingertips, he traces your eyebrows slowly, rolling down to caress your temples. He curves along your cheekbones with his thumb, memorizing the softness of your cheeks and how they give rise to the bridge of your nose. Just one finger runs down the length of it.

You sigh in the back of your throat, cherishing the time he’s taking into this, getting to know you again. How gently, how slowly, carefully, how he seems almost worshipful about it. You’ve missed him, you’ve missed the moments like this where it’s just the two of you in your own little world. You’ve missed his touches.

They’re like a secret code of their own, it’s like he’s telling you something but in a way only you can understand. It’s like calligraphy, and painting and making music all at once.

Your eyelids sting with happy tears, but you don’t shed them. Not now, not when he’s giving you his whole undivided attention.

He taps the end of your nose playfully, and you blink at him in surprise, the thoughtful smile on his lips. You’ve never been able to hide anything from him, which is a blessing and a curse rolled up into one, right now you’re grateful. Grateful that- even though blind -he can see you.

Matt tilts his head, looking contemplative as he finishes his appreciation of you, his fingers coasting along your jaw, stopping to cup your chin. For a while, he’s stuck, holding your chin in a barely-there grasp as he ‘looks’ down at you, your own reflection staring back at you in his rosy glasses.

Maybe- you muse at your expression -he’s not the only one being worshipful.

And then his thumb traces your plump lips, softly, because the pads of his fingers are rough, and he doesn’t want to cause any discomfort. Your lips are smooth, warm, pliant, and he memorizes them the first time over, but it doesn’t stop him from indulging a few more times.

This is confession. Right here, with you in his arms, and his heart in your hands and his name on your lips.

His thumb drags down your lips, catching on your bottom one, and he hears your heart stutter. He’s foolish, zealous enough to believe it beats for him, he believes the sound it makes is his name. He leans down, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand curled adoringly around the side of your neck.

Your own hands lay on his chest, his heart beating firmly under your palms like Morse code. If only you knew what it was saying. Your fingers curl into the soft material of the jacket he’s wearing.

“Perfect.” Matthew murmurs with the cadence, and softness, the respect of one saying prayer. “You’re perfect.” This time it’s louder, stronger. It’s a proclamation dripping with honesty and adoration and who are you to crack those rose-tinted glasses?

You grin, “Compared to who?”

Matt knows you’re teasing. It’s the way you are, you’ve never been able to accept a compliment at face value. You like giving them to people, making others smile and feel worthy. But you have a harder time on the flip-side of that coin. And Matt can’t imagine why.

You’re worthy, you’re amazing, and deserve the best in the world. Unfortunately, you can only get the best that he can provide. Not nearly close enough.

“No one. No one can hold a candle to you.” He tells you seriously, but his voice is low, melodious.

Your smile twitches sad. “That isn’t true,” He opens his mouth to protest, so you reach up to cup his jaw, your thumb resting lightly over his lips. He understands the message, and takes it with grace. “You have no idea, Matthew.”

You close your eyes, and breathe a deep sigh, drinking in the scent of his shampoo, the detergent of his bed sheets. His breath is warm on your lips, light and sweet from the breakfast the both of you made- the breakfast you made while he held you from behind and draped his head over your shoulder.

You hum at him, the sound sweetly giddy. “No idea just how brightly the sun shines on you.”

Matt beams at you, and breaks away to wind you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your ear. “Trust me, I do.” After all, he’s spent all this time revolving around you; he knows just how brightly you shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help. That is all. This might actually become a damn thing. Because i keep getting ideas for this. Right. Anyway, carry on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's far too hard on himself. He sets himself up for failure, the only person he ever fails is himself. If only you could get that through his thick skull, you'd have no problems. But that's just one of things you can't help but love about him.

It’s much how you remember: crowded, loud, and claustrophobic, the air stagnant with booze and cigarette smoke, and just a hint of the city itself soaked into the walls. It’s the same loveable shit-hole it’s always been, and rather than fall apart with its age, Josie’s has merely grown into it.

There’s no such thing as a ‘usual table’ because the tables are perpetually full, and you just have to wait for one to clear out. The only one free is a table in the corner near the pool table and you had practically dragged Matt to it, worried that it would be snatched it up.

You’re supposed to be meeting Foggy here, as well as a woman named Karen, the secretary for Nelson and Murdock. Matt had told you the whole story on the walk here, and you listened intently, leaning into him, your arms interlocked.

You think it’s wonderful, what he and Foggy are doing. You know it must be difficult to find clients, and then to keep the business afloat considering the wealth of the clients they choose, but you also know Matt doesn’t care for the economics of the business. He just cares about the justice behind it.

“Do you want a chair?” you ask him, hand laying on his forearm as you look across the room at the high-tables with stools.

He smiles gratefully at your consideration but shakes his head, “I’m fine. Standing’s sort of nice after spending all day in an office chair.” He rolls his shoulders, toying with an ache there and you frown a little.

Not that he can tell. Absentmindedly, you squeeze his arm, and the smile he’s wearing warms a few degrees. But it slips when a burly man passes you, his heart beating fasting, adrenaline rising, and a very specific pheromone pouring form the man.

Matt reaches around you, and coaxes you flush against his side, his wrist on your hip because he has yet to fold up his cane. You ‘hm?’ at him in question, the sound quiet, but it’s practically right in his ear so he hears you.

He smiles tightly at you, but doesn’t say anything. Not for a minute or so, not until other men look away from you, when the bravado and testosterone dies down in the room. Not until he’s sure that everyone in the room understands that you are untouchable, that you are not up for conquest.

No, because no one in this shithole town is good enough for you. There’s no one, alive or dead, that’s good enough for you.

Matt breathes in, calming himself in the scent of your skin, your shampoo, the detergent you wash your clothes in, the-

Matt’s stomach clenches.

-the subtle undercurrent of arousal that hides underneath everything else.

He feels sick, momentarily. Has someone in the room captured your eye? No one seems to be nervous, or anxious, no one looking in your general direction. Your heartbeat belies nothing. It’s as steady as ever.

You angle your body towards him, just a few inches, but it makes it easier to place your hand over his chest, to feel his heartbeat. He’s been known to space out on occasion, when he’s overwhelmed by stimuli in an attempt to quell an oncoming panic attack, and you hope that isn’t what’s happening here.

“Matt, you okay?” you murmur, your brows creased in worry, and he swallows stiffly.

He puts his left hand over the one you have on his heart, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He turns his head, facing you, and you suddenly feel something in the air change. You know he’s blind, but you swear he’s really looking at you.

The sensation, and the thought tugs at you wretchedly, and you drop your gaze to his hand covering your own, and you make out the callouses there. How did you miss them before?

As if he can sense where you’re looking, he drops his hand and tilts his head. “Brace yourself,” he says, and you break out of your reverie to scrunch your face at him. “Foggy just walked in, he hasn’t seen you-“

Matt stops himself, smiles, “He sees you.”

You look at the door and see Foggy beaming at you, he waves, all stiff-armed and high and you giggle, waving back at him. Foggy makes a break for you, shoving people out of the way with half-assed apologies, and you laugh heartily at his excitement.

You break away from your brother, but only because he’d be caught up in the bone-crushing hug Foggy wraps you in. He’s just shy of spinning you around in a circle when he remembers where he is, and disengages with a goofy smile.

“I knew you’d be back to Hell’s Kitchen, couldn’t stay away from me, could you?” He asks, a playful glint in his eye and you grin,

“No, I guess not. Finally came to my senses. Should have never turned down your offer to elope.”

Foggy breaks out in a full belly laugh, tossing his head with it, and throws an around your shoulders to pull you back in for another hug. “Well, now you’re gonna have to make it up to me.” He jokes, and lets you go to stand on the opposite side of the table.

Matt resumes his previous position with his arm twined around your waist to keep you removed from the crowd. “You two had plans to elope? The betrayal.” He teases with a good-natured smile.

You roll your eyes.

“She just rolled her eyes.” Foggy narrates for Matt, and Matt smiles.

Silently, he presses his cane into your side, and you take it from him to fold it up and lay it on the table. His hand lands on your hip, sure and firm, and he senses the discomfort, the niggling suspicion ooze from Foggy about the small interaction.

Sometimes he honestly forgets about the line in the sand. Forgets that he should care.

“So,” you fold your arms across the table, and it grabs Foggy’s attention, something Matt is relieved about. “You cut that glorious mane. _That_ should be a crime.”

Foggy sighs sadly, dramatically whips his hair and laments, “It is. I don’t look half as good as I used to when I ride horses across a beach at sunset now.”

You shake your head with a smile, cocking your hip into Matt’s side just so it’s harder to see his thumb rubbing circles into your opposite hip. You had the seen the expression on Foggy’s face, the subtle question struggling against denial.

You didn’t want the question out there in the open, even though there was plenty of evidence to support it.

“It’s a shame,” you say with a sad frown, and Foggy nods.

“I’ll tell you what else is a shame-“ he stops suddenly, and dawns a guilty look. “I missed your graduation party.”

Matt stiffens like a board next to you, his hand on your hip tightening ever so slightly. And you want to glare at Foggy for saying something.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It was boring, and so quiet, and just-“ you wave your hand dismissively, showing exactly how you feel about the whole thing.

Foggy dimples a cheek mirthlessly, “Still…did you get my gift?” He perks up a little with his question, and you feel Matt’s hand squeeze your hip harder.

“Yeah,” You force a smile, wishing you could do something to alleviate Matt’s current state, but all you can do is- “It was thoughtful. Came straight from the heart, didn’t it?”

Foggy chuckles, no doubt recalling all the trouble he went through to acquire it. “You sound surprised. I’m a thoughtful guy, you know?”

You grin at him toothily, and open your mouth to banter back with him some more when Matt speaks up.

“Karen’s here.” His voice monotone, even, and when you turn your head, you find him already looking in your general direction.

Foggy turns, and spotting Karen, he waves at her much like he did you. He spins briefly to say, “Karen and I will get drinks, and then-“ he points at you, “-introductions.”

“Sounds good.” You reply, and he hurries out into the crowd to meet her. From this distance, you can’t make out much except that she has very pretty hair, and a nice figure.

Matt sighs sharply next to you, and you bring your attention back to him. “I’m sorry that I-“

“Please don’t start.” You interrupt him softly. “It’s fine-“

He grimaces at himself. “I missed everything. Jesus, I didn’t even send you a card or an e-mail…” He turns his head away, his jaw tight.

“You were busy. I knew that.” You try to soothe him, sneaking your left between the two of you to grasp his side.

He huffs, and lets go of you, dropping both his hands.

Busy.

Yeah, he was. Busy running around rooftops beating up criminals. Busy risking his life, busy lying to you.

He feels sick.

“Matthew…” you sigh at him, tracing your thumb over his hip-bone, but he doesn’t budge. He’s stewing. You bite your lip, retract your hand and sigh again.

Foggy and Karen are making their way over, beers in hand, and you want one now. Desperately. You know Matt will be closed off for a while, thinking over his failure, beating himself up for it, and you know there aren’t any ways past those walls. Not even for you.

She’s nice. This Karen. And witty, and she makes you laugh. You can see why Matt and Foggy keep her around. She’s lively, but she’s also strong-willed, with a very clear moral compass. But you can tell that her emotions get in the way, she has a lot passion below the surface.

The question of “Pool?” gets raised half-way through the night, after everyone’s had a few beers, and you jump on the opportunity.

“We’re not betting money?” You ask, half-teasing, and Foggy shakes his head adamantly,

“No way in Hell’s Kitchen…unless you’re on my side.”

Karen raises her eyebrows, leaning against the pool table. “She’s good?”

Foggy scoffs. “Good is an understatement.”

Karen smiles. “Girls vs. Guys.”

Foggy groans, and looks at Matt for help, but his blind friend just shrugs. Foggy grabs his beer and takes a long pull, earning eye-rolls from both you and Karen.

Foggy points at Matt. “Don’t pretend to suck at billiards, glory is on the line.”

Matt smirks at Karen’s huff of indignation, and walks towards the pool table, hand out-reached. He lets you guide him, but just long enough to get to the table.

“So, you don’t suck either?” Karen asks Matt, pretending to be mad, if the laughing lines around her mouth are indication.

“No, he doesn’t.” You answer for him, and put a cue in his hand as Foggy arranges the billiards.

Matt shoots a wan smile at you, and moves towards the opposite end of the table. You can sense him shift gears. There’s a fraction of sibling rivalry wavering over the green between you, and you grab that thread with nimble fingers.

“May I do the honors?” you say, flickering your gaze from the white cue-ball to Foggy who already looks like he lost the game.

“Go for it. Gotta keep tradition and all.”

Grinning devilishly, you walk towards the head of the table and take your position, bent at the waist, arms steady, breath even with your eyes clocked in on the cue. A breath in-

You look up, at Matt standing at the other end, stick planted on the ground, hands wrapped around the wood loosely, those rosy glasses glinting in the smoky light-

A breath out and you take your shot.

He smirks when the white cue makes contact.

From that moment on, it isn’t Girls vs. Guys. It’s Murdock vs. Murdock.

Foggy isn’t bad, and neither is Karen. But Matt and yourself are the ones picking up slack, carrying your respective teams.

The shots become elaborate, bordering on impossible because the two of you take to making the game difficult for one another instead of trying to win. Foggy and Karen, somewhere in the middle, decide to quietly bow out. Not that you or Matt notice.

It’s like chess instead of billiards, the way the two of you plan and plot.

He sinks a ball.

But just that one for a while.

You sink one.

You manipulate the remaining balls with your next shot, the 8-ball obstructing a sure shot for Matt.

He stands for a time after feeling the location of the white cue, his desired mark, and the 8, and then he huffs a sigh at you. “That wasn’t very nice.” He scolds you from his place near the corner pocket on the opposite end.

You shrug. “We’re not playing nice.”

He twitches a smile, trails his hand along the wood as he waltzes around the table towards the white cue-ball, and stops next to you. “We never really have.” He remarks thoughtfully, remembering all the games the two of you have played over the years.

“The cue?” he asks, as he leans down.

You sigh with a smug grin. “11 o’clock. Which makes your solid 2 impossible to sink, unless you want to lose the game.”

“Cute.” Is all he says before he falls silent and thinks…if he can put the right amount of spin mixed with force, and hit the wall of the table at the right angle, he can-

Matt takes his shot, the stick meeting the cue with a loud crack and the ball flies along the table, curving rapidly, spinning.

It knocks into the wall, making a sharper rotation, and you watch with a scowl as the cue sidles right around the 8 ball and slams that blue 2 right into the pocket.

“I hate you.” Is your immediate response, and Matt chuckles, standing.

“So, if I recall…I have one more ball, right? And it’s-“ He pauses, points at another corner pocket, right across from the one he just sank that 2 in. “There. I’m calling game.” He gloats lightly.

You shift closer to him. “Looks like we should’ve played for money.”

“C’mon, we’re all broke here.” Foggy interjects from where he’s leaning against the wall with Karen.

You smirk and shrug at him. “Speak for yourself.” You retort, and grab the bottle of beer Matt put down at the start of the game.

“Wait- what?” Foggy says, but you ignore him.

There’s a tiny line between Matt’s eyebrows, but he doesn’t respond. He just goes to other end of the table and takes his shot.

You eye the 8 ball, resigned, as Matt lines up with it. If he only knew how many shots you purposefully botched…you smirk around the rim of the bottle as you take another sip.

Matt seamlessly forces the 8 into a pocket, and sighs. He wonders if you know that he was trying to set up the game for your victory. But you kept thwarting that plan every turn. Honestly, he’s not sure if you were playing to win…it didn’t feel like it.

Even so-

“Well, that’s game.” You say with a false lilt of defeat in your voice, and he can hear it.

-he feels like you got exactly what you wanted.

But you typically do. If he can help it. He often feels like a puppet to your marionette, but the beauty of it is that you never make him do anything. He moves on his own, all for your benefit.

Matt’s quiet, hand resting on the edge of the table, the other loosely holding his pool-cue as your heat beats slowly across the space between you. He listens to the muscles in your throat as you drink the last of his bottle, and he quirks a small smile.

“I think I’m turning in for the night,” He says, and holds his cue out to Karen so she can put it back on the rack. Matt can hear you head over to the table for his cane, and he edges along towards you.

“What? The night is still young, many more drinks to be had!” Foggy protests with his glass raised, and Matt chuckles,

“That’s exactly the point: I’m quitting while I’m ahead.” He lets you coax his now extended cane into his hand, and then feels you hesitate to grab his arm.

You smile at Karen and Foggy. “Thanks for the fun night you guys, I’ll be seeing you all soon.” You promise, meaning to keep it. It’s been a long time since you’ve genuinely enjoyed yourself.

Matt begins walking, and your response is natural, whip-sharp. He feels your arm slip into the crook of his elbow, right where it belongs. He hasn’t let your hesitation slip his mind, he needs to mend that. But for now, he’s quiet.

The walk to his apartment isn’t long, but maybe it’s the guilt, the desire to make amends that gives the walk a sense of underlying urgency. Or maybe you know he’s going to breach the subject of your graduation and the party that he missed. Maybe you just want to dump him off at his doorstep and escape to your own apartment.

But when you’re both there on the threshold, and you’ve unlocked the door for him, he snatches your hand, dips his head down like a scolded dog and says the one word he knows you’ll never ignore. Not from him.

“Please.”

You hesitate where you are, inches from him, looking up in those reflective glasses and you know you’re going to give in. You watch yourself do it, you watch the defeat settle into your features and you slide past him into his darkened hallway.

You don’t turn on the lights, he doesn’t need them. And by the time you emerge into his quaint living room they’re unnecessary. Your jacket is still on the back of that chair, you wonder if he knows you left it there on purpose.

He’s quiet, almost silent, but you’re expecting him, so you don’t respond when he snakes his arms around you from behind. Much like he had this morning.

“I’m sorry-“

Your sigh cuts him off from the rest of his apology. “You don’t need to be.”

“It was important to you, and I missed it. I missed it all.” He argues quietly, mumbling into your shoulder, and he can _feel_ you get irritated. But you don’t try to pull away. You’ve always been like that: afraid to hurt _his_ feelings.

You’ve never denied him contact or robbed him of it. Like now. He knows you don’t want to be in his arms, but he needs you there, so you don’t move.

“I’m never there for you.” He hisses, features twisting in disappointment, and self-loathing, and he shakes minutely. He trembles with the poison of his failure, his muscles compromised, and he wants to hold on tighter. But he lets go and steps away.

“Oh, stop it.” You exhale brusquely. You don’t know where he gets the impression that he needs to be omnipresent in your life to be a good brother. “You’re always there when it counts. When it matters most.”

Matt scoffs, clocking in the fabric of your clothing rustling when you turn to face him. “Then tell me: tell me that you didn’t need me once-“ he cuts himself off, whether because he’s afraid to hear that you didn’t need him, or that you did and he wasn’t there, he doesn’t have time to analyze.

“I…” You lick your lips, and inhale slowly. Unintentionally, you think of all those nights that you were drowning in stress and homework, and so financially broke you didn’t know where your next meal was going to come from. You think of all the panic attacks, and sleepless nights, and you think of all the lonely nights spent studying.

“I can’t.” You admit finally, reluctant and loathe to feed into the validation of his current self-beratement.

Matt frowns, hard. But his eyebrows and his jumpy throat tell you that he’s regretful, that he’s guilt-ridden.

You smile at him faintly. “I _can_ stand on my own, you know?”

Matt turns his head, as if he can actually see, and seeing you hurts him. “I do. I just hate that I didn’t give you a choice.” He sighs shakily, and makes to walk away, though the purpose is unclear as well as the destination because you reach out and grab the hem of his shirt.

Immediately, he’s taken back to his childhood. To the years that you both bounced around from orphanage to orphanage, and you’d…You’d trail after him, close as you could, holding onto the hem of his shirt, or one of the belt loops of his jeans.

It’s ingrained him: the need to be in front. To be the wall between you and whatever hurts. He’ll take a beating for you. He’ll die for you.

“Matty.”

His shoulders shake unbidden at the gentleness, the adoration in your tone, the sweetness that rolls off your lips when you say his name.

You move closer, curling the fingers of your other hand into his shirt, and you tug, pull at him until he’s turned towards you. The billboard paints the room in white, blue, purple and makes shadows dance. His glasses don’t reflect, the change in light is too fast.

When you’re sure that he won’t move you stretch up, grabbing his glasses in kind hands, and his breath hitches in his throat, audibly. Oh, and it humbles you, that he would let you take this from him: a wall that he hides behind from everyone.

Carefully, you put his glasses on his table, and then cradle his face in your hands. He relaxes into your touch, tilting his head just a little to brush his lips along the heel of a palm.

“Don’t hide from me,” You quietly plead, running your thumbs over his cheekbones, watching the light dance in his eyes. “It’s just another way to leave.”

He blinks, as if you’ve startled him, and then he looks down at you, meeting your eyes by some miracle, and it’s your turn to lose your breath. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you, not unless you send me away.” He means it, every word, even if the last ones are sad.

He feels it. He hears it. He knows it’s there. He can feel the whole room shift, the city dies outside, the past means nothing. All he has is here, right now.

He has his hands on your waist, not where they should be. It’s far more intimate, it isn’t appropriate, but that doesn’t mean shit to him. He knows.

There’s a clarity about this.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But he also knows you know, and that you don’t care about the line in the sand either, because you’re here too. So, he does something he shouldn’t. He leans down, and he kisses you. And you do something you shouldn’t.

You kiss him back.

He’s fine. He knew he’d eventually get here, one day. He knew his resolve would weaken. It was inevitable.

He feels your hands slide down and back to wrap your arms around his neck, to pull him closer, and fire flashes through him.

But that’s okay.

He’s prepared to burn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small moments, he finds, are the most important. It's the little things he remembers clear as day, and today, today will be one of those days he remembers. It's all so good, simple as it is. But maybe that's precisely why he'll remember. His days are never normal.

He surprises you. Just shows up out of the blue, in the middle of a rush, holding a bouquet of flowers as people rush around him. He asked what floor you were on, stepped out of the elevator, and then stood stock-still in the mayhem of the office.

No one payed him any mind, too busy with their own affairs and ‘dire emergencies’. It was too loud, and too much was going on, so Matt didn’t make the mistake of stepping out into the sea of suited businessmen and tight-skirted women.

It’s not until he’s stood there for ten minutes that someone says something. Really, you’ve just accidentally eavesdropped while on your way to fax some files when you hear Kelly, the company bicycle, mention the attractive blind man hanging out by the elevator.

It’s enough to peak your interest. So you leave the heavy files in your arms by the fax machine and maneuver your way through the chaos and loud phone-calls, and the heel-clicks of power hungry vixens and break through on other side, just a little out of breath.

Matt cocks his head, this way a smidge, then the other. And then he smiles toward you, unsure.

People glance your way, but none stop to watch as you approach Matt with a smile of your own, yours more amused than anything.

“Uh- I don’t really know what kind of flowers these are- the florist said-“ He breaks off to chuckle, and licks his lips, dipping his head. “Well, never mind. These are for you, I hope they aren’t ugly.”

You laugh, and take the bouquet from him. You don’t know much about flowers either, but the colors are nice. Soft blues, and purples, whites and pinks. And- you bring them to your nose -the smell is nice.

“Can I ask what it is you’ve done wrong?” You tease him, an easy-to-hear joking tone in your voice, and Matt’s smile gets wider,

“Yeah. Yeah- I realized -earlier today, that I haven’t taken you out to dinner since you’ve been back.” He explains with grievance, but he’s also still smiling.

You chew on your lip, the scent of the flowers toying with your nose, and you look over your shoulder at all your co-workers rushing here and there, and you frown. For all their bustling and urgency not, a lot is getting done. Your stress levels are through the roof, and technically speaking, you were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago.

Sighing tightly, you whirl around and grab Matt’s arm. “Why dinner? How about lunch?”

He’s taken off guard for a moment, and just sort of lets you corral him into the elevator without so much as a peep, until he’s turned around. “Don’t you have to w-“

“Nope.” You interrupt him, and stab the first-floor button with your finger so hard it hurts. “They can manage without me.” You don’t even feel sorry.

The elevator doors shut quietly, leaving you alone with Matt in a metal cage. But honestly, this is the most relaxed you’ve felt all day since you came into work at 5 this morning. Idly, you smell your flowers again, and softly smile at them, thinking the gesture sweet and cute.

Matt trades hands for his cane, freeing his right, which he slips into your left. Your fingers slide through his immediately, squeezing. It hasn’t been long. Since that night.

He doesn’t feel guilty like he knows he should. In fact, he feels like this might be the only thing he’s done right in his life.

“Do you remember…” your voice breaks him out of his thoughts and he tilts his head toward you. “When we were kids, bouncing from orphanage to orphanage- and we’d uh- we’d spend the whole first day there finding somewhere quiet that we could just…” You trail off softly, your tone soaked in nostalgia and melancholy.

Matt furrows his brows, but doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t want to interrupt your thoughts. So, he listens to your heart, your even breathing, and is somewhat at ease knowing you aren’t going to burst into tears on the spot.

You’ve hardly ever. Cried in front of him, that is. The few times that you have just about killed him. ‘Seeing’ you so distraught and broken destroyed him in ways he didn’t even know existed. Seeing you cry makes him feel helpless, but so angry. It makes him angry that people can push you to tears, that people hurt you.

He can’t understand why anyone would want to hurt you.

“Disappear.”

Matt blinks, grip on his cane stuttering. “What?” he asks, thinking perhaps he missed more of your words, and you hum at him with a lilt of laughter.

“Disappear. We always had a place when we were kids. Where’s that place now?”

Matt’s silent. Did something happen? At work maybe? Has New York already become too much for you? He jumps to worst-case scenario because this is Hell’s Kitchen. Were you assaulted?

“What’s- is something wrong?” Matt is making no attempt to not sound worried, to not be the overprotective, sometimes over-bearing brother he is.

“No,” You shake your head, and after realizing he won’t see it, you squeeze his hand. “It’s just- you brought me flowers, and I had to smile and say thank you. I had to wait until the elevator doors closed before I could hold your hand-“ you break off, knowing that he’ll fill in the blanks and find your point and while he does you watch the number on the screen change, counting the seconds you have until you’re forced to let his hand go.

Matt chuckles, and you immediately scowl at him.

“What? What about this do you find amusing, Matt?”

He ducks his head, still laughing, and pulls you toward him with your interlocked hands. “How differently we’re both looking at this.”

You squint, and stare at a button of his dress shirt. “What do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited, how long I lied to myself?” You huff at him quietly, the sound only a fraction heated. So, he elaborates. “I’ll take anything I can get. I’ll take this-“ he squeezes your hand for emphasis, “Or being able to put my arm around you in the dark of a cab, or any number of brief moments that we can have alone.” Matt releases your hand to slide his arm around your waist.

You have nothing to say. Mostly because you feel a smidge selfish about this. He’s just content, grateful to have you, and you’re unsatisfied that you don’t get him as much as you want. You know this is unorthodox, you know it’s wrong on a number of levels. You know this shouldn’t be happening, but after so long, after so many years of wanting it, of needing it…

You’re not giving this up. You’ve never believed in soul mates, not really. The idea that there’s one person out there for you. One soul catered and molded to fit your desires, your needs, to perfectly match your personality- it sounded too good to be true.

Until you realized it was. Because your soul mate happened to be your big brother.

And people think God doesn’t have a sense of humor.

For a long time, you merely saw him as that. Your brother. Because that’s all he could be.

And you told yourself that the love you felt for him was just sisterly love. You tried to strangle it, wrap it in velvet and force it into a box that was too small for its size.

You allowed small things because you thought you could get away with it: standing too close when you’d adjust Matt’s ties, or the ambiguity-laced touch you’d use to cradle his jaw when you’d drop a goodbye or hello kiss to his cheek.

And you’d let him get away with certain things too: his hand low on your back when he’d maneuver around you, the way he’d mysteriously land a kiss very near to your mouth which you’d let slide due to his blindness- regardless of how often it seemed to happen.

You hum, humoured, and then shake your head lightly and Matt cocks his head at the noise. “I guess I just feel like there’s a lot of wasted time to make up for.”

Matt’s lips twitch a smile, and his fingers rub little circles into your back through your starch-white shirt. He wants to argue, to say that any time spent together, in whatever dynamic, wasn’t wasted at all. He wants to say that rushing to fit in moments aren’t going to make up for the moments that didn’t happen…

But he doesn’t.

Instead, the elevator dings, and he unwraps his arm from you. “So, lunch?”

“Yeah. Where do you-“

“Nowhere, exactly…” Matt steps out first while you scrunch your face and have a reflective moment. It’s only when the elevator doors start to close that you rush out after him.

His cane is tip-tapping back and forth and people in the lobby give him respectable distance. And then when you reach him and grab his arm, some of them smile.

It’s a faith renewing aesthetic: seeing a blind man walk so sure, and then a woman taking his side with a bouquet of gorgeous flowers, no doubt from the blind man. And maybe the genuine, warm smile on his lips helps that hopeful feeling flutter in them. Maybe the quiet blush and tender looks you shoot him also help.

In any case, you’ve both brightened people’s days, inadvertently.

“Instead of dinner out, I was thinking of lunch in.” He says, that loosely goofy grin adorning his pouty lips.

You push the door open for him, New York roaring in your right ear, “What are you in the mood for?”

Matt searches for your hand, mostly he just holds his own out and makes a come-hither motion with his fingers. “Some peace and quiet.” He says as you both start down the sidewalk.

You think of teasing him, something along the lines of _that doesn’t sound very appetizing,_ but you rest in the warmth of his hand, in his company, and let him lead you somewhere. That’s very much a description of your entire life: willfully, voluntarily, happily going wherever he does with no question or desire for a destination.

You edge closer, lacing your fingers, finding a peace and a sense of home in the roughness of his hands. Cars honk, strangers chatter, steam rises from grates, tires hiss on tarmac, the wind rustles, a dog’s collar jangles, sirens wail in the far distance-

But all you hear is the sound of Matt’s cane tapping the sidewalk, all that breaks through your bubble is the caress of his thumb along your own, all you see are the varying shades of brown in his stubbly jaw.

Your job is barely a block behind you. But already it’s farther than that, it’s ancient history because the moments you spend with Matt are eternity in themselves.

There’s humidity in the air, and you know only part of it is from the oncoming storm that’s been brewing over New York for the better part of all morning.

Matt’s hand tightens in your own.  

There’s a hush, a very well-hidden agenda in the lengthy strides you both take, the measured breath that stutters occasionally like Morse code in the seemingly meaningless seconds that make up this walk to wherever. There’s a delicate balance between impatience and mature haste and you can almost hear it in the tempo of his cane, feel it in the moment of contact between your shoes and the obscenely gum-littered sidewalk.

The echoes of city-life in alleys that you pass are like punctuation for sentences you don’t utter. It’s like little notes hidden in dark corners that speak of soft feelings and well-meaning intentions. Windows beat by, reflecting the thrum and livelihood of New York, taxies a yellow blur and all the traffic that follows.

You sneak glances, occasionally, and appreciate his gait, his aloof grace and his straight-ahead focused walk. It almost shocks you, finding yourself on his side with a wrapped bouquet of beautiful flowers, keeping time with his strides, melting into the rhythm that comes with crowded sidewalks and rude people.

It’s abrupt. The stopping. The halt at the door of his apartment.

There’s no reason for it. Not to you anyway.

But here he is, with his head slightly tilted and his lips spread in a smile that speaks volumes of a happiness you’ve only barely had time to graze with your fingertips, and he’s softly breathing, all manner of humble and appreciative but so tempered by time and hardship that he seems bigger than he is.

He doesn’t shake himself out of his reverie, he just glides on, smoothly, tugging you with him up the stairs he’s memorized. And he thinks of the contents of his fridge, wondering just how much the two of you can magic up the bare ingredients he has on hand into something palatable.

The cane is folded up and tossed on the couch, as well as your itchy suit jacket, and Matt disappears into his room to change into more comfortable clothes. You take to your surroundings, analyzing your choices of dishes from the contents of his cupboards and his fridge.

As you expect: there’s not a lot to work with. But there’s just enough.

You spread your ingredients out on the counter, and start looking for utensils and a dish to put everything in when Matt emerges, dressed so comfortably it makes you fight a yawn.

“So,” he says he walks towards you, zipping up his hoodie, “What are we having?”

You snort, and stare at the few foodstuffs you have in front of you. “Chicken and rice casserole.” You shoot a look at Matt, who has his arms crossed over the counter: listening and basically just being a lazy bum about helping you.

“You really need to go to the store.” You point out uselessly as you begin working on dinner.

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” He agrees, though you both know he’ll do no such thing unless under extreme duress or capital torture.

“It’s a wonder you haven’t starved.” You remark lightly, filling a bowl to mix everything in.

Matt smiles. “I order take-out a lot.”

You huff with a smile of your own, and don’t offer input. You just settle into the domesticity of making dinner, interspersed with light conversation and companionable silence, or the _blu-bluh_ of sipping beer, the hiss of a new bottle being opened, or the gentle pattering of rain on the brittle windows.

Matt remarks about dinner before it’s finished, complimenting tepidly. You brush off his praise, and take the last few minutes to set his tiny table, crack open another beer for the two of you, respectively, and check on the casserole in the oven.

You close the oven door and turn to look at Matt, your hip leaning on the stove. “You have something I could wear? Feel like I’m suffocating in this get-up.”

Matt smirks in your general direction. “Get-up? A suit-jacket and skirt, that’s a get-up?”

You roll your eyes, taking initiative to head towards his room. “Considering I normally wear jeans and a t-shirt, yeah.”

Matt hears the soft patter of your feet, and can’t remember exactly when you took off your pumps. “Where are your heels?” He asks as you near him, staring blankly up towards where he thinks your face is.

“Near the door,” You reply, and stop next to him. His arm hangs over the back of his chair, limp, but his fingers twitch now and then.

He does that thing with his head, tilting, cocking, most of the motion can be seen in his tipping chin- and asks, “What’s up?” because you’re near enough that he can hear you breathe.

“Nothing, just…” Slowly, you cup his face, your hands barely grazing his scruff, fingertips feather-light as you coast up. “You don’t need these.” You murmur as your fingers find the legs of his glasses, and you carefully coax them off his nose and from behind his ears.

He chuckles breathlessly, and nods, small about it and seemingly non-chalant. But his hand finds the back of your thigh, just as you gentle as you were, and he rubs your humming skin, thankful.

You make a soft sound, run a hand back through his hair, and swipe a thumb along one of his shapely cheekbones, admiring the depth of color in his blank eyes.

Sighing, you retreat. “Shouldn’t be long. Make sure the casserole doesn’t burn.”

He follows the sound of your voice, awkwardly turned in his chair, and salutes. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s more than enough,” you throw over your shoulder as you slide the heavy ‘door’ to his room and disappear behind it.

Matt grins, grins like a fool now that he’s alone, and maybe, just maybe, he sighs a little. He doesn’t dwell on it, though. Because not two seconds later, he hears you make the same sound, just as wistful and breathy, and Matt relaxes bone-deep in his uncomfortable chair.

And he keeps his thoughts to himself, just as quiet as the rain, and just as tranquil as the continual rivulets of water droplets rolling down the window panes. And he makes sure the casserole doesn’t burn.

He makes sure the casserole definitely doesn’t burn. Does it get a little dry, a little crispy around the edges? Yes.

But it doesn’t burn.

In his defense, leaving a blind man to watch the food was really a poor move on your part, which he points out when you come back and take the dish out of the oven.

But you aren’t mad. The opposite, really, as you go about serving it with a smile on your face, and a genuine gratefulness as you say grace for the meal.

As you eat, Matt reflects on just how fortunate he is, all things considered.

“I love you.” He says quite out of the blue, on his way to another forkful, and he himself stops, stunned by his own words. Because before the words had a distinct flavor of _that is my sister, who I love. Like a sister._ Now, now they’re different.

You glance up from your chicken and cheesy rice and find him struck into stone, and you smirk a little at his uncouth declaration. The sound of your cutlery on porcelain doesn’t stutter at all, and neither do you.

“I love you. Now eat your dinner. Wouldn’t want to let it get cold after you almost burned it.”

Matt slowly comes back to something resembling human, and takes a drink from his beer to fill the seconds of his inaction, and he lets your words warm him, persuade his nervous heartbeat to something formidable.

The flowers sit in a vase on his coffee table, and they smell sweet but not as sweet as you. And he’s positive that they don’t light up the room half as well as you do.

He reflects on just how fortunate he is. And feels he got away with too much. Not that he’s complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, you and I are in the same boat. You're not asking for Matt Murdock, and neither am I. He just keeps showing up, and you know what? I won't apologize. Have little worry, though. I am working on other stuff, I swear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it seems to good to be true, then it probably is. And if something can go wrong, it will. He's reminded of that simple fact tonight, as well as a handful of other things. First and foremost being: he needs you. Second: he wants you almost as much as he needs you. But will you need- will you want -him now?

It’s just one second, one tiny second that he lets his mind slip, and he pays for it. Dearly.

The pain doesn’t register, not immediately, because he knows if he loses focus again he’ll end up in a worse way and be unable to finish this fight.

His side is warm, and it throbs in time with his heartbeat, pushing blood to soak into his shirt.

It’s a tight space, cramped by dumpsters and boxes and AC units, metal staircases that hug scratchy brick walls, and there’s a lot of knives in the mix.

Seconds seem close together, closer together than usual as he dodges swipes, metal singing through the air. He hears the footstep of one, right foot forward, left scooting back over the asphalt- scratching.

One of them splashes in a puddle, the droplets cascade down, are interrupted by the man’s other leg.

A metal zipper on a jacket jingles with movement, the torso of a body twisting.

There’s adrenaline, so much adrenaline. But his mind is clear.

Matt stops the wide swinging arc of a knife, his right hand tight on the man’s wrist. A sharp punch to man’s gut- Matt hears a rib crack.

The second comes at him, overeager, and Matt drops to a knee. There’s a yelp of pain: the zealous one has accidentally stabbed his friend in his haste to attack Matt.

Matt swoops his leg in a wide circle, knocking the shoddy criminals off their feet.

Cheap metal tinkles from his right, and he rolls, avoiding a strong roundhouse kick. Matt deflects a jab, the knife whistling past his cheek.

Matt spins, and drops low to kick his leg out behind him, angled up to slam into the man’s stomach.

The wind leaves him, and he stumbles back, his grip on the knife loose.

Matt’s starting to feel the pain in his side, and decides that he needs to finish this fight. Now.

Maybe the man sees it coming, maybe he doesn’t, but the result is the same. Matt’s boot still finds his jaw, even 6’ above the ground.

And then the man’s jaw finds the ground. He’s out cold.

Matt’s out of breath, but he does the responsible thing and uses one of their cellphones to call 911 and report a mugging. He’s gone long before the police arrive, he’s gone before the cellphone hits the ground.

He books it, as well as he can, and winces through the pain. He can think of one thing, only one thing on the way to his apartment: You’re going to be so disappointed, so hurt.

Matt isn’t sure how he did it, but he forgot.

He forgot about dinner tonight. After he practically begged you to let him take you out, he forgot.

He’s been so caught up in all this bullshit with Fisk, he’s desperate for answers. He meant to only look into a lead, to just poke his head in and then quietly leave. But-

His side pulses hotly, a mild reprimand, one he’ll gladly take over your heartbreak.

-When do things ever go according to plan?

Getting into his apartment isn’t easy, but it’s familiar, and while it takes longer, he does get in. His feet have barely touched the floor before he’s peeling off clothes, tossing his vigilante costume to the floor as he hurries to the bathroom and the first-aid kit under the sink.

The clean-up is quick, just shy of reckless, and the stitching even more-so. His hands shake, because he’s thinking of you: sitting alone at a table set for two in a crowded restaurant, waiting for him. And he feels damn guilty.

He tapes the wound, slaps some gauze over it, and cautiously wipes at his face.

He doesn’t have time for a shower. So, he puts on deodorant, sprinkles himself with cologne and hobbles to his room for a change of clothes.

Matt’s hasty, almost unconcerned about his appearance as a whole, so long as he’s dressed that’s all he cares. The tie goes on quick, and for once he gives less than one shit if it’s straight.

He slips his glasses on, snatches his phone off the coffee table where he left it, and dials you, his heart hammering a mile a minute inside his ribcage.

He gets half-way to the door, bouncy in his steps when he remembers his cane. Only he can’t remember where he left it.

“Dammit!” he curses, and whirls around, striding in his living room while the dial-tone rings in his ear. He spins this way and that, and can’t find it. “Dammit!” he says again.

The line goes to your voice-mail and Matt hangs up, breath sawing out of him. His chest feels tight, and his hands are shaking, badly. And he can’t find his damn cane!

_Traffic blares outside, someone knocks over trash bins, a couple argues loudly on the sidewalk, brakes squeal, someone’s tea kettle screams shrilly, a horn roars, keys clatter on a countertop, water drips like a waterfall from a faucet, powerlines hum-_

Matt fumbles with his phone, re-dials you again as all of New York bombards his senses and suffocates him from the safety of his living room. The tone of your phone ringing just barely breaks through everything, but it’s all there, beneath the surface, layer upon layer of noise that he can’t block out right now.

_A glass shatters on the tile floor of his downstairs neighbor, pigeons burst into flight from the roof, their wings beating into the night, a rickety fire escape squeaks in the wind, a door slams, the pages of a book flit rapidly, someone’s in the middle of a coughing fit, a pan of water boils-_

“Matt-“ Is the only thing you get out of your mouth before you just stop where you are. He’s gasping into the phone, short of breath and panicked, and you bolt up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The thing about Matt: he’s never skipped out on you, for anything. After how adamantly he pushed to have dinner with you tonight you know he wouldn’t just not show up for no reason. Which is why you left the restaurant, and decided to come here.

The first time your phone rang it was buried in the bottom of your purse, underneath your keys, wallet, mace, make-up, gum, and assorted candy. You didn’t reach it in time. The second time you were in the foyer with the phone already in your hand.

You’re glad he called again.

You’re also glad you bugged him senseless a few days about getting a copy of his apartment key.

In your rush to get to him you almost trip up the stairs, banging your shin on a higher step, but you hardly feel it. You fumble the key in the door, your hands shaky-

The door sticks. Though it never it has before, and you think it’s just your combined luck- yours and Matt’s -for it to happen now.

The lock is undone, the knob is turned, so you ram your shoulder into the door, igniting a throb you ignore. It’s going to bruise, you bruise easy. No sleeveless shirts for you, for a while, anyway.

Matt doesn’t even hear you enter, all he’s aware of is the breath sawing out of his lungs, the tilting sensation of his entire world brought on by his dimmed senses. He’s vaguely aware of the phone in his hand, he doesn’t want to let it go, it’s the only thing he really has a grip on.

It’s awful. His initial response when you grab him, tender and cautious as it is.

He twists away with a panicked and startled gasp, the phone falling from his grip which prompts a sinking sensation in his stomach. He backpedals, unaware of his surroundings and falls into his couch, toppling over the arm of it to land on the cushions.

He can’t believe he’s gotten himself into this situation: so helpless and frantic and lost. He can’t find anything to anchor himself to-

Matt feels a hand a hand on his waist, and his own snaps there to pry it away. At first. But the second his skin makes contact, he pauses.

Soft, mostly, from lotion. Gentle knuckles, fingers smaller than his own, and-

His breath hitches.

They’re curled into one of his belt-loops.

He hears a voice, garbled and distant as if talking through water, but he tries to focus, tightening his hand on the familiar one at his belt.

Matt thinks it’s you. He hopes it’s you.

_Power lines hum, loudly. Footsteps echo on concrete stairs, wooden floorboards creak, tumblers in a lock click, the tab on a can of soda cracks open_ …he hears his name.

It’s slow. It starts with his breath, a steady decrease in the speed, in the severity of each draw, his heart rate drops, a beat at a time, he notices that he feels hot from exertion, he feels the sweat at the nape of his neck, as well as the fabric of the couch on what exposed skin he has.

He feels a hand on his face, the palm warm and soft, caring and soothing, smoothing across his jaw towards his ear. Or in his hair, fingers combing through carefully, slowly.

Your perfume. He smells it, mixed in with the natural scent of your skin, and he shudders a sigh. “Y/N.” He croaks.

“Matty.” You respond quietly, your voice tight with tears, and he hears it.

Or he thinks he hears it. The city, life, everything. It’s all still so- “Loud.” He murmurs, fatigued.

You need no more data. You slip your hand under the back of his neck, not minding the damp ends of his hair. “Sit up.”

He does, with your help. It’s a little uncomfortable what with his legs over the arm of the couch, and no support for his back. You stand, just to give him room, a hand still on the back of his neck, which moves as he situates himself: it slides from his neck to his shoulder, then his collar-bone, and then up to his jaw which you cup.

Silently, he grabs for you as the city invades again, sneaks past your perfume and heartbeat and slithers through his floorboards to strangle him with its presence.

He all but tugs you, and you practically fall into his lap, your knees on either side of his waist, and his hands, his arms, are around you immediately, and steel tight. His head finds its way to your chest, an ear pressed close to listen to your heart, his fingers digging almost painfully into your back, not that you mention, or acknowledge.

And that’s how it is for the next ten minutes: him glued to you, his arms like length of rope that hold you tight, and you, all manner of soft about it with light fingertips that pet his hair, and brush his face, skim the stubble on his jaw, run nonsense patterns into his back.

It may feel slow, because nothing happens, but he finds his center suddenly. Just from one second to the next. There is no gradual, or calm, or steady descent. It’s just a ‘suddenly’.

He nuzzles against you with a relieved hum, his nose brushing the column of your throat. He loosens the death-grip he has on you.

It’s quiet. Quieter than it has been.

You lean back, glad that he can’t see your double-chin at doing so, and he instinctively raises his head. “Okay?” You ask him, your hands cradling his face, eyes running over his features, still worried.

“Yeah.” He smiles up at you, warmly, and moves his head a little  so he can feel your hands run against the grain of his stubble, scratching deliciously. “Thank you.”

You chuckle at him, breathlessly. A fraction of the desperation you felt at his episode still lingering. “You’re welcome.”

Matt’s smile twitches a little wider.

His hands on your back glide down, the fabric of the dress you wear pleasant on his fingertips, and come to rest on your thighs, where your dress has ridden up a little. Your skin is warm, akin to the warmth of bed-temperature, and it makes him think of little things: your feet in his lap as you read a book and his hands rubbing your ankles, your chuckle as you lean across the table to wipe his chin- or his jaw -off.

He thinks of the nights. The nights that you spend here. He thinks about the minute that he decides to change for the night. And then the minutes after when you change, and he wraps around you wherever you, doing whatever you’re doing, and he catches the scent of his cologne, and the familiar fabric of the shirt he just took off- and he thinks about how he always has to shift a little, give himself some space so you don’t know just how much it affects him.

He thinks of the mornings. Sometimes you’re still in bed when he wakes up, and he slithers toward you, hand skating along whatever portion of flesh he comes into contact with first. So familiar, but so foreign. Sometimes you wake, and you copy him, but you always trace his face, his neck, collar bone.

Sometimes you don’t wake.

Sometimes you aren’t there at all.

Already in the kitchen making breakfast, coffee brewing, humming along to whatever music you have quietly playing, and Matt will roll to your side of his bed and nestle into your pillow, breathing in the smell of your shampoo until you come in to practically drag him out of bed.

He doesn’t realize he’s even kissing you until you pull away, your breath stuttering sweetly. He says nothing, just smiles, and anticipates. Anticipates the movement of your hands, his ears in the crook of your thumbs, and you’re there. But not before he is.

It always starts out so sweet, with your soft kisses, and gentle presses, your quiet sounds. But his resolve never lasts, it falters somewhere around the time that you cradle the back of his neck, and settle down onto his lap as if you have no intentions of going anywhere. He can measure the sweetness from your teeth to your lips and it rattles him like he’s made of loose bolts and rusted metal and not flesh and blood.

His hands grasp your thighs harshly, pulse beating under his fingers, breath breaking between you.

He’s half a mind, only half, to pretend his propriety isn’t in tatters. He’s aware he needs to apologize for standing you up, but with you so close, your hands in his hair, your breath in his mouth-

He pretends he doesn’t have anything at all to apologize for.

Until you press a little closer and he winces. He’d forgotten about the injury on his side.

You pull away, and he attempts to coax you back, but the damage has been done.

You look down at him, at his white dress shirt, at the splotch of red blossoming near his hip and you can’t help but gasp.

Matt sighs.

“Matt, what happened?”

The question leaves you, but all Matt feels is the distance you create when you lean back to assess him. He does nothing to stop your curious hands, his own stay where they are, frozen on your thighs, his thumbs on the edge of the dress’s hem.

His shitty stitches didn’t hold up, that much is apparent. But if your intake of breath is any indication then perhaps he shouldn’t have tried stitching it up to begin with. The wound could’ve used more attention than he gave it.

“Matt.” It’s only his name, but it sounds like a million things to him. The one thing that rings clear is the demand. The demand for an answer that coats the single syllable of his name.

“You…wouldn’t believe me.” He says after a time, dropping his chin, as if to watch you toy with a button of his shirt…which you are. It’s a nervous habit of yours, to fiddle with things.

“I will. I always will. You’ve never lied to me.” Your words are strong with conviction, but your hands….your hands are holy grace, holding his face in sweet reverence, gentle persuasion, quiet absolution.

His lips part-

This is confession: with you in his arms, his heart in your hands and your name on his lips.

\- “Y/N, I’m The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

And now he has a million things to apologize for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detoxing Matt Murdock from my system is not working. He won't leave, he just gets renewed, like the heart making new blood. So, I apologize to those of you that don't give two craps about Matt Murdock. But it doesn't seem as if he's going anywhere....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's always the first to cave. To come forward with shuffling feet and a heavy heart, downcast eyes and pleading palms. He's always the first to apologize, to seek forgiveness, to throw pride to the side of curb. But with you...with you it's like stepping in front of a judge knowing you're going to be pronounced guilty- knowing he should be. With you, his life is in your hands, dramatic as it may sound. He willingly approaches, resigned to whatever ultimatum you unleash.   
> ...It's a good thing for him that you've always been forgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Another chapter. I thought I was done too, honestly. But here we are. How 'bout that?

Your response hadn’t surprised him. He expected it but he was in no way prepared to face it in reality. He knew you’d explode on him, and he could take that, he did, stoically and reasonably and he bore the brunt of your anger like a true Murdock: he received each metaphorical punch you threw with a wide stance and a straight-forward gaze.

And you threw those punches damn good…until he was weary for breath, and his teeth hurt in his gums.

He expected you to leave, to slam the door so hard the vibrations echoed and burrowed into the walls. He expected your quick feet retreating down the stairs.

He expected you to explode on him.

What he didn’t expect was for you to implode afterward.

You didn’t answer any of his calls, wouldn’t come to the door when he visited your apartment, he couldn’t seem to coax an explanation or update on you from any of your friends. You had just cut him out, entirely.

He kept an eye on you, at night. He made time to make sure you were okay, that you weren’t planning on leaving. So help him, if you left….

Matt hasn’t gotten anything done. Nothing. Not a thing. 

Foggy and Karen have noticed that he’s miles away, and they’ve yet to question him about his distant, lack luster temperament. Would it be acceptable? His excuse?

No. Probably not.

He shakes his head, and rubs his temples, massaging the pounding ache there that hasn’t lessened since he revealed himself to you. He can’t focus on anything, he just keeps spinning in the revolving door of his regrets and his worry, and all the things he did wrong with you.

Matt’s read the same paragraph of the file in front of him four, now five times, and he sighs sharply.

He stands from his desk, cane in hand and offers no explanation as he leaves despite the questioning calls from Foggy and Karen.

He knows you don’t work today, and he knows you know he does have work today. So, you won’t be expecting him to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the day.

You’re caught so off-guard, mostly because you assume the knock at the door is the delivery guy for the take-out you ordered half an hour ago. Also because Matt is the first and last person you want to see for a number of reasons.

An eternity stretches out between you, unintentional. You wait for him to say something, and he waits on himself.

He picks out the meat of the situation. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“

“Oh, shut up.” Is your whip-like response, but it’s laden with burden, sharpened with hurt.

Matt’s features twitch at your tone, and his hands tighten and loosen around his cane. “Do you…you want me to go?” he doesn’t want to ask, but what he does want is to get back into your good graces. If you told him to he’d-…well, he’d do anything, _anything,_ for you.

You rake a hand through your hair, and close your eyes. “…yes.” You murmur, not knowing if you’re lying. When you open your eyes Matt’s fidgeting on his feet, his throat bobbing.

He nods, the motion small and turns.

He doesn’t get two feet away before you groan out of frustration.

“No.” you swing your door open wider, and edge towards the door-jamb. “No. I- shit, I don’t want you to go.” He pauses where he is, half-turned away from you in your tiny hallway, and you realize he’s making sure you mean it.

“Just- get in here.” You order and get on the opposite side of the door so that when he finally inches his way into your apartment you can shove the door shut.

And then there’s silence again and he’s fiddling with his cane, and your arms are crossed over your chest and you’re looking at all the familiar things that litter your apartment.

Matt’s head is dipped, like he’s hiding from your simmering wrath. He’s only been in your apartment a handful of times but he’s already got it memorized. He minds little about your abode, though your neighbors are loud, and your heat pipes rattle gratingly, and your bed isn’t graced by silk like his own. He can ignore all of it, because it’s you, because this is where _you_ live.

“Beer?” you ask him, on your way to your fridge and you don’t miss the way he starts to reach for you as you pass him, the way he consciously stops himself with a frown.

“I…yeah.” He sighs, and ‘looking’ in your general direction he folds up his cane and effortlessly navigates towards your couch. He’s relieved that you still haven’t found a coffee table; one less thing for him to bruise his shin on.

You watch him as he goes, your stomach rolling. You close your eyes as you breathe deep.

“Are you even actually blind?” the words fly off your tongue before you’ve made it to the couch, and he smiles a little.

“Yes.” He replies calmly and holds his hand out, waiting for you to put the bottle in his palm. You don’t. Not until he raises an eyebrow and makes a grabby hand at you a couple times.

“Okay,” you say, and take a sip of your beer. You settle into your couch, feet tucked under you, hands on your thighs, turning the beer slowly. “Okay,” you repeat and sigh. “Tell me.”

“Tell you?” he cocks his head, unmoving. He hasn’t taken a drink yet.

“Yeah,” you nod, mostly to yourself. “I want to know everything, Matt. Everything.”

He shifts, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of shedding light on everything. But- this is what you want.

Whether you’ll want him afterwards, well, he can’t say. Maybe you can’t either.

He rolls his lips into his mouth, and leans forward to put his beer on the floor between his feet. And then he tells you. He tells you everything- _everything_ -that’s happened to him since he lost his eyesight. He leaves nothing out, not one detail. Even the things he knows will be hard for you to swallow, things you may not accept: Elektra. And what happened the last time he saw her.

There’s a long pause there. A very long pause, which he gives not for himself, but you.

You open your mouth. Once, twice, close it. You watch his fingers twitch on his thigh, his legs too, and his throat bob with a hard swallow.

It’s in this very long pause that you finish your beer, and sigh afterwards, the sound weak and catchy and it prompts Matt to reach for you, out of instinct.

But he once again stops himself short, knowing that you won’t want him to touch you, not after what he just told you.

“Go on.” You quietly tell him, your voice tight.

He doesn’t verbally apologize, but he tries to convey it in his face before he continues his tale.

Matt has no idea how much time has passed, or how you’re receiving all this information. Your heart is steady, strong, it gives nothing away, and he wishes he could see, get some visual cues.

You haven’t interrupted with questions, you’ve been quiet, processing.

It’s quiet for a total of fifteen minutes when you realize that he’s done, that his story has come to a close and now you have to respond. How do you respond, though?

“I- I have no idea what to say.” You fall on the truth. “I can tell you that I’m pissed, and hurt-“ you cut yourself off with a huff, glaring at him as if he can see you.

Matt dips his head. “I know. I’m sorry-“ his hands are clasped tight between his loose legs. “That’s not what I wanted. I never want to hurt you. I want you safe. Happy.”

You adjust yourself, untucking your legs, and lay an arm on the back of the couch as you turn to sit sideways on your couch. “Matt, sometimes you’re so stupid I have to wonder how you got into Columbia.”

Matt sits up straight, and blinks a few times, his mouth hanging open loosely.

“I don’t need to be safe, kept in the dark, sheltered,” you continue, and look down at his feet, the beer bottle that he hasn’t touched. “You want me happy, but do you even know what that means? What happiness is to me?”

Matt sighs through his nose. He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. “A good book and a comfy chair on a rainy afternoon?”

You smirk lightly. “You’re a little shit. No.” your snark relaxes him a margin, but not enough to loosen the tension in his shoulders. You open your mouth-

“Pizza’s here.” Matt says, his head cocked to the side. Whether he intentionally meant to interrupt you or not is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter: you’d have been interrupted either way.

There’s a knock at the door.

You feel a thread of irritation at the delivery boy, though it isn’t his fault. He doesn’t know he’s intruding on the most important conversation you’ve ever had. The exchange is quick, with you handing him a twenty and brusquely telling him to keep the change. You’ve over-tipped him but you don’t care.

You toss the box into your arm chair caddy-corner from your couch, and Matt quirks an eyebrow,

“Clearly pizza isn’t what makes you happy.”

You stomp over to him, grumbling. “Nope, sure isn’t.”

He gets no warning. None.

You give no thoughts about the fact that he could be injured, and, thankfully, for once, he isn’t.

He knew better than to take to the rooftops this past week. His head wouldn’t have been in it.

There’s a swaying sense of déjà vu about you landing in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and your hands- your hands on his face, gripping him firm, grounding him.

“It’s this,” you murmur, leaning in, and his breath hitches, “Us.”

He drowns. Right there, on the fourth floor of a brick apartment building, sitting on an ugly plaid couch that he doesn’t know is ugly, and he doesn’t kick for the surface. Not this time, not ever. No, he just clings to you, the anchor, and lets himself get dragged down to the depths of the ocean, where he pays no attention to the lines in the sand.

Matt feels as if little really got discussed, there are so many things he’s sure you’re not okay with, he’s sure you don’t forgive him for everything.

You break away first, to get your breath, to take his stupid glasses off, to talk. “I need you, Matt. All of you,” He hums in the back of his throat, nosing around the column of your neck, plucking kisses, nipping gently.

“Especially the part of you that you hide from everyone else.” You say, voice strong, and he stops to tilt his head back.

What you need, what you want. Yeah, he can do that. Give you those.

But what you deserve? That’s far out of his reach because you deserve a million times better than what he is. 

“I’m yours.” He promises, pressing a firm kiss to the underside of your jaw, his eyes shut. “All yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shiiit. I need to stop watching Netflix because this crap happens. Oh muh Gawd. Matt. Just- Matt. I had this idea rolling around in my noggin and i couldn't let it go, so here it is..... Just- UGH. MYGOD. Send help. Please.


End file.
